


Fomenting Peace

by D20Owlbear



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale goes feral it's fine, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Competency Kink, Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Crowley's a bit off kilter but that's chill too, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Homoerotic Sword Fight, Inspired by Art, M/M, NSFW Art, No Plot/Plotless, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, SO MUCH you guys, Scene: Kingdom of Wessex 537 AD (Good Omens), Smut, That's it that's the plot, Wessex - Freeform, and then imbuing him with so much divine ecstasy, basically what if Aziraphale HAD accepted the Arrangement, but only after a wildly, fight scene but make it sexy, from the get go, turning Crowley's armor into chains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:28:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28927320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear
Summary: Wessex, but if there was a bit of divine ecstasy involved; aka things very much don't go according to Crowley's plan for the worse, and then the better, and then turns out it went according to plan after all."No! Absolutely not! I am shocked that you would even imply such a thing. We are not even having this conversation. Not another word." Aziraphale's tone hadn't changed from prissy and offended, but there was something in his face—no in his eyes—that turned darker and darker as he watched Crowley and their disagreement wore on."Right." Crowley muttered with a barely-hidden scoff. He crossed his arms over his breastplate and frowned heavily at Aziraphale."Right!" Aziraphale pivoted on a foot and took two huffy steps away. Crowley made to turn as well before the flash of something metal glimmered in the gloom. On instinct, Crowley fell back away from the glinting steel and was glad for it. Aziraphale had turned once more on silent foot and struck out with a sword he certainly hadn't had on his person before!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 105
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	Fomenting Peace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doorwaytoparadise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Blasphemy day 5](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/747060) by claireodynamic. 



> Based entirely on doorwaytoparadise's blasphemy art you can see [here](https://twitter.com/nothistoryart/status/1349986184815144960) !

The cold made Crowley shiver, the damp and the wet were alright, but Crowley really couldn't abide the cold. Not for any particularly snakey reason, if he were ever to be honest, but because he was a bit of a thin thing and had trouble keeping his heat. His band of un-merry men followed behind him as he began his intimidation spiel. (That was a lie, they were all merry enough, a pretty decent sort actually, just impoverished greatly under the feudal system here in England. And Crowley continued to have no small wonder at the fact that Aziraphale thought they simply had _more opportunity_ to do good, even though everything was against them feeding their families)

He coughed to clear his throat and returned back to the scene at hand. Aziraphale. The feathery fool didn't even bring his sword, to meet the Black Knight! Sure, it was Crowley who wouldn't try to attack him, but still, Aziraphale hadn't known that going into this!

"Be easier if we’d both stayed home, and just sent messages back to our head offices saying we had done everything they asked for, wouldn’t it?" Crowley drawled with forced nonchalance.

Aziraphale gasped loudly in response and his hand flew to his chest in non-forced outrage, "That would be lying!"

"Possibly." Crowley shrugged. "But the end result would be the same. We cancel each other out..."

They bickered for a bit and Crowley absolutely did not flinch when one of his men patted his back in silent support, and presumably also to let him know they were headed back, since they weren't needed to get the jump on this particular Knight of Arthur's court.

"No! Absolutely not! I am shocked that you would even imply such a thing. We are not even having this conversation. Not another word." Aziraphale's tone hadn't changed from prissy and offended, but there was something in his face—no in his eyes—that turned darker and darker as he watched Crowley and their disagreement wore on.

"Right." Crowley muttered with a barely-hidden scoff. He crossed his arms over his breastplate and frowned heavily at Aziraphale.

"Right!" Aziraphale pivoted on a foot and took two huffy steps away. Crowley made to turn as well before the flash of something metal glimmered in the gloom. On instinct, Crowley fell back away from the glinting steel and was glad for it. Aziraphale had turned once more on silent foot and struck out with a sword he _certainly_ hadn't had on his person before!

"What the bloody _heaven,_ Aziraphale?!" Crowley shouted, quickly shunting himself with an unintentional miracle back onto his feet. With a human it wouldn't have been necessary, Crowley had become a deft hand at swordplay, enough to best anyone who couldn't account for his supernatural strength at least and his innate speed. But Aziraphale was different, Aziraphale had been _built_ to be a holy warrior, made to be the destruction of evil that hadn't even existed at the time. And Crowley was exactly that. There was no way he wouldn't have to use _everything_ at his disposal to make it out of the fight, and Crowley pra– hoped that it would be enough to just be discorporated instead of properly, divinely smote.

His sword drawn halfway out of scabbard, Crowley blocked Aziraphale's next bone-shattering swing. His hands reverberated underneath the skin in time with the blade, quickly enhanced the metal and the wood of the scabbard so it wouldn't break in his face. Fuck, Aziraphale wasn't playing–

But then Aziraphale disengaged and stood for a moment, looking over Crowley, who still only had his sword halfway unsheathed and most likely looked wide-eyed and half-crazed with a sudden, all-encompassing battle-thrill. Carefully, ready to block again at a moment's notice, Crowley pulled his sword free with the _shnk_ of steel scraping over brass at the top of the scabbard, ringing out across the small vale and muffled eerily by the fog. A good intimidation tactic usually, but Aziraphale only smiled. And that is how Crowley knew he was fucked.

Aziraphale lunged forward for a stab that might have been useless with Crowley's armor if not for the force behind it. Crowley grunted as he parried, not bothering to try to block again and relying on a more… germanic style of fighting.

With every stroke of his blade, and every desperate parry of Crowley's, Aziraphale murmured under his breath. Crowley's nape quickly grew sticky with sweat and damp of the air around them, he barely had enough time from one movement to the next to breathe, let alone formulate a decent offense. The game was lost the moment Aziraphale got him wrong-footed, and regaining it in a fight was nothing short of a miracle, especially with an opponent who was classes above you in skill and footwork.

It was almost a dance, Crowley might have thought if he'd had the room in his head to, every step Aziraphale took, Crowley mirrored, every clash of their blades and occasional sparking of metal catching on metal lighting up a little too close to Crowley's face. The spark were hotter, somehow, than they had any right to be, and every flash of them in the corner of his eyes made Crowley's nerves shoot up to the sky, worried they might be some proof of Aziraphale gathering divinity in his sword enough to smite him in a single swing, cracking through his breastplate and slicing through his chain like butter into the core of him to sever his connection to the mortal plane particularly painfully.

Crowley turned a little too slowly mid-parry, his hand on the flat of the blade and his elbow out just a little too far not to be sloppy, as his foot was _shluck_ ed into a bit of mud, and the very tip of Aziraphale's blade scored a thick, jagged line into Crowley's pauldron. He would have paused to look at it, a little befuddled as to how easily Aziraphale cleaved through his armor, but there simply wasn't time.

Aziraphale was in his space again, too close for proper longsword combat, they were nearly in each other's pockets, but Aziraphale didn't particularly _need_ proper combat, did he? Not when he could so easily overpower Crowley. Their swords locked again, hand on hilts and flat against the blade and turning their combat into a play of pure strength rather than skill.

Admittedly, Crowley wasn't really used to fights turning on him like this (he'd never had one start this bad, not since he picked up swordplay these last few centuries), but he'd always been damned good at _wiggling_ out of trouble. So he did exactly that.

With a duck and a push, Crowley shifted his weight suddenly so that Aziraphale's sword would slide off his own over his head, overbalancing the angel just a little. Enough, at least, that Crowley could take a leap of a step away and gather himself. It didn't last long, Crowley didn't expect it to, and Aziraphale pivoted with a certain amount of grace Crowley had never seen before from him.

Crowley swung up with his sword from where the tip of it sat on the ground, a long diagonal cut stopped halfway by Aziraphale's blade, and then Crowley _pushed_ forward, angling the sword underneath Aziraphale's arm to cut at the flesh covered only by chain. He'd imbued his sword with just the amount of keenness necessary to slide through the metal like a ship's prow through still water, But Aziraphale had done something to his armor. It didn't cut!

Hastily Crowley tried to pull his sword up to block with the guard any retaliation to come but it was wrenched from his grip when Aziraphale shut his arm tight to his side, blade twisting flat against his side and arm, and held fast. With his other hand, Aziraphale had the freedom now to swing at Crowley, who was much too close for any mortal blows… if either of them had been human…

Aziraphale's sword sparked, not on fire per se but tiny embers jumped from it gleefully like a crackling log falling deeper into flame and the air around it tasted of ozone and divinity. Crowley grit his teeth, baring them at Aziraphale in the split second he had before the sword fell to his chest, preparing to keep himself from screaming at the agony of being violently removed from his corporation with a holy burn to go with it.

But… that's not what happened. Crowley blinked, surprised. The sword rest precariously on his chest, unpleasantly hot on his skin. The very edge of the blade sparking and popping after having cleaved through his plate and chain and gambeson and jerkin (under which he wore no tunic, Crowley knew what he was about, bless it!) and just… sat there. He gazed into Aziraphale's eyes and bit back a gasp at how utterly, blessedly, deliriously _hungry_ he looked.

A shudder rang up Crowley's spine like a thousand knells of church bells, echoing in the hollow belfry of his ribs. The sword laying across his chest tilted until the flat of the blade was pressed against his skin, and Crowley couldn't help the hiss that left his lips at the heat of it as it dug underneath the layers and leveraged the metal and fabric off his shoulders. The straps of his pauldrons gave under the strain of the weight, his gorget and helmet remained firmly in place, and his arms were yanked back behind him where his bracers were strapped to his forearms, trapped by his clothing and armor.

Unbalanced, Crowley stumbled back, tripping over himself only to fall to the wet grass. His legs splayed underneath him and his chest bared obscenely with how his shoulders were wrenched back. He could– he forgot for a moment he could simply empower his limbs and tear through the armor, he could grab his sword or make a run for it. Retreat now would surely be better, to return to his men in something akin to disgrace would be better than simply dying, being smitten.

But then he looked up, eyes wide and yellow from corner to corner and breathing heavily, and Aziraphale inhaled sharply when their eyes met. Crowley swallowed heavily and looked over Aziraphale with that gasp echoing in his head. The way his hand trembled on his sword as it raised, the tip of it tapping underneath Crowley's jaw and angling his head back up to see just how wide Aziraphale's pupils were and how his chest rose and fell with deep breaths. Crowley was familiar with the feeling, the way he took in air to memorize the scent of Aziraphale and his desire soaking the room of every place they dined together. What, exactly, Aziraphale was smelling Crowley wasn't sure, but he could feel his own eyes sharpen in interest.

Shifting his knees, he rose up, just a little, to reposition and then fell back down to the ground. Aziraphale breathed in sharp and fast again, his eyes were piercing in a way that made Crowley feel like his old namesake, crawling and squirming at his feet… but he didn't mind being at these feet in particular, connected to Aziraphale as they were. Crowley's thighs strained a little at the stretch and bend with his armor still on, but his knees were as far apart as he could make them, sitting down on the grass with his feet behind him.

Crowley let his eyes flutter half-way closed, and then suddenly his helmet and coif was gone. Aziraphale didn't look surprised in the slightest, so him probably, but Crowley kept his smile off his face. Watching Aziraphale through his eyelashes, and feeling the hot tip of the sword rather a bit more along his chin, Crowley tilted his head back and turned his cheek.

"You–" Crowley's voice trembled and cracked, husky from fear-turned-desire, "You've bested me. Angel."

There was a long moment where Aziraphale didn't respond, not verbally at least, but the rest of Crowley's armor was removed and transmuted until he was left in only his trousers (the straps at his calves undone and vanished as well, Crowley noted) and manacles just as heavy as all his armor though far less cumbersome, keeping his wrists bound behind him.

"I did." Aziraphale spoke slowly, each word deliberate in a low, gravelly voice Crowley had never heard him use before. The tenor of it shot down from his chest where his breath caught and right to his groin. Crowley bit back a moan at the feeling of wetness dripping from his kut and how the sword in Aziraphale's hand quivered against his skin, only one wrong move from cutting him. Crowley's mouth grew dry at the thought of being thrust into, the leap from one sword to another too easily made and the snowball's path followed without hesitation.

Aziraphale's eyes watched his mouth with all the intensity of a hawk eyeing prey from on high as Crowley licked his lips, slow and sensual, letting his mouth close then part slowly to breathe through his lips. Crowley sucked in a slow, steady breath to keep himself together and his hips from grinding against the damp ground beneath him uselessly in an animal search for friction.

"Aziraphale," Crowley breathed, " _Angel_ , please."

"Please what?" Aziraphale asked, just as deep and dark and rich as molasses, just as before.

"Have _mercy_ ," Crowley pleaded, moaning in disappointment he couldn't bite back when Aziraphale's sword left the soft underside of his jaw. But his lips parted again in a gasp when Aziraphale drove the tip of it into the wet grass by his feet. The fog condensed on trampled blades of grass hissed and steamed.

Aziraphale sat, enthroned himself on a chair of nothing, his cape laying in great drapes between his legs and billowing around the hard edges of a throne that was not there. He didn't say anything more and Crowley was afraid to break the tension between them, worried that if he tried to initiate something again it might turn out– actually, this was turning out pretty good. Not the Arrangement he'd been trying to float, but if this was the sort of… Understanding Aziraphale was up for Crowley wasn't going to complain. Not by a long shot.

Then, Aziraphale reached forward and Crowley couldn't help the way he swayed to meet him, the web of Aziraphale's thumb and forefinger met Crowley's throat first, and the rest of the hand followed, settling heavy on the gorget still left on his collar. Another brush of subtle, angelic magic turned it easily into a joug with a short chain from the front rather than the back, and instead of lashing him to church walls, he was held fast by the holy bastion before him.

Each metallic chink of the chain as Aziraphale pulled back from the metal collar thick around Crowley's neck, each link of the chain passing over his thick palm, made Crowley bite his lip harder in a desperate attempt not to moan too loudly.

"Do you think, fiend," Aziraphale said, the firmness of his voice tempered and made harder by the heat underneath it, "That I am merciful to those who tempt? To those who try to sway the hearts of angels to evil?"

Crowley's heart jumped into his throat and his eyes widened. " _No–_ " Crowley flinched and shouted, "that's not– angel, I promise, I swear– that's not what I–"

Aziraphale yanked on the chain, holding it up higher so that Crowley had to arch his back just a little and smiled so gently at Crowley, the sharp depths of his eyes softening just enough, that Crowley could breathe again and his heart was back to tapping its break-neck tattoo of desire rather than panic.

"That's not what I asked you, demon Crowley." Aziraphale tugged on the chain, just enough to make it clink rather than pull Crowley any which way.

"No," Crowley replied roughly. "No, angel, I don't think you have mercy, for the likes of me."

"Good boy."

Crowley couldn't bite down the moan that ripped from his throat at the sobriquet, at the sheer affection that dripped from Aziraphale as he said it. How was Crowley meant to resist it? He was hollowed out and cast down, scraped clean and burnt out of exactly that sort of thing that used to be inherent in him… and here was an angel just _brimming_ with it. Exuding it, letting it overflow from him and drip onto the dry-desert of Crowley's soul. Every Jericho Rose part of him came alive and unfurled at it to soak it up and bloom green again.

And it was _ecstasy_.

Aziraphale's breath grew ragged and Crowley's eyes shot up to meet his; dark, storming grey with its black-hole pupil consuming the light and iris as it grew with Aziraphale's desire made Crowley's breath catch again, and then work double time to raggedly pant. Crowley squirmed and couldn't help the way he shifted against the ground for any sort of friction. His trousers disappeared suddenly, the coolness of the air between his legs made Crowley dizzy as another wave of arousal hit him and he could feel himself dripping obscenely.

"Fuck!" Crowley moaned loudly until another brutal wave of affection and love broke over him, drowning him in it 'till he was insensate and utterly, wholly helpless before Aziraphale. The tension and heat in his hips was nigh on unbearable, with nowhere to go and nothing for him to move against other than grass too slick and too _grassy_ to be enjoyable, he was left frustrated and unfulfilled.

"Azira–" Crowley pleaded breathlessly, leaning forward to shove his cheek against the inside of Aziraphale's knee, certainly not his most graceful but he couldn't bring himself to care much, "Aziraphale, please– oh _fuck, please!_ " He nuzzled the side of his face there over the cold metal that felt like a balm to the heat of his skin, flushed still with arousal and exertion.

With the hand opposite the sword at his side, Aziraphale reached to tangle his fingers in Crowley's hair. It hurt and it pulled where hair caught in the joints of the gauntlets Aziraphale wore, but Crowley couldn't bring himself to care, couldn't keep himself from whining loudly in the face of yet more love, impossibly filling and heavy. Each time Aziraphale's love rose like the tide, Crowley drowned happily, only for it to pull away just seconds before true ecstasy leaving him shivering and his thighs trembling.

"Did I not say, Crowley," Aziraphale murmured, pulling Crowley closer by his hair and angling his head up at a sharp angle until he was looking straight up into Aziraphale's eyes, face backlit by whatever little sun diffused through the clouds of fog around them. "That I won't have mercy on a demon?"

Crowley had never wanted to sing holy holy holy as much as he did right now.

Aziraphale leaned down and pressed a kiss to the crown of Crowley's head, filling him with all the Great and Terrible love Aziraphale had to give. It was like a lance and a caress and a bolt of lightning down his spine.

It was agony wrapped in bliss at the center of that ecstasy and every part of Crowley cried out in the mortal dimension and the next, ringing through the foggy valley with a sound like a volcano churning within and of dust bowl storms rattling wooden windows growing until they twined and reached a peak. Falling off the edge, the precipice of the summit and diving head first into what was sure to be his death, Crowley let it pass over him and through him and wiped his mind clean of all thought.

Crowley coughed and blinked groggily, he groaned low and it hurt his throat with how raw it was. He opened his mouth to say something as his breathing calmed down and he creaked as he spoke, "Azir– angel?"

"Does that answer you, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked softly, smoothing fingers sans gauntlet through Crowley's hair, smoothing it back into place where it had frizzed in the humidity from his body heat.

"Ans'er what?'

"Canceling each other out."

Crowley hummed and licked his lips, testing the manacles on his hands and was relieved when they slid away into nothingness. "I er… no, not really, actually."

Aziraphale sighed heavily as if Crowley was a particularly stupid dog not finding a scrap of food on the floor everyone was pointing towards. "Yes. I'll cancel you out, and you cancel me out… we can share information and check orders against each other, but I'm afraid I can't simply let you… I can't do anything on your behalf. I won't lie to Her again, not for this sake."

Something about that… it was exactly what he wanted, well not quite but close! It was a huge step in the direction of what he wanted (and a little something extra besides it seemed) but something about it all made a breaking sound in his chest.

Not for the sake of this.

"Alright. Noted." Crowley mumbled, turning his gaze to the ground. "Gonna let me up?"

"Oh! I'm sorry, my dear, of course!"

Crowley conjured some clothing to clad him but didn't bother with armor once the joug fell away from his neck, stood on unsteady legs (feeling particularly coltish about it), and cleared his throat.

"So, er…"

"Oh, right, yes," Aziraphale blustered and snapped his fingers. The sword disappeared back into the ether or wherever Aziraphale stored it when he didn't carry it, and in its place was a ledger in Aziraphale's hands.

Crowley looked away and gathered up his sword and scabbard, where they'd fallen in the… scuffle before, and snapped up his own papers. On scrolls though, Hell was rather unfortunately a bit of ways behind any new technological advancement the humans made, because, of course, Hell couldn't simply run _well_ now could it?

"I'm stationed here for some time actually…" Aziraphale began and Crowley didn't let himself think about how he crowded next to the angel, shoulder to shoulder to look over the same documents and fingers crossing over each other to point, and absolutely didn't let himself think about how it felt to be _whole_ now that he wasn't anymore.

**Author's Note:**

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